


Hell is Cold

by Everliah



Category: Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 23:18:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3547445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everliah/pseuds/Everliah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'And he knew, in that moment, with Tessa's head on his shoulder and Jem's hand in his, that he would forever be warm. Because Hell was far too cold for him.'</p><p> A short alternative chapter on Will's death in Clockwork Princess! (I have used part of the original piece so credit goes to Cassie Clare for that and of course, for her characters! Unfortunately I don't own Will or Jem!) Please read&review!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell is Cold

**Author's Note:**

> So, this came to me when I was busy crying over the end of Clockwork Princess and I just wrote it! I kept part of the original (credit to Cassandra Claire there) because I loved it so much, but I just tried to focus more detail on Will, since he is probably one of the most perfect characters ever!!!   
> Thank you for reading!! Please review if you have an account as it would mean so much to me!
> 
> **SPOILER ALERT**

Hell is Cold

The years had not been kind to Will Herondale.  
The heavy weight of loss and love tore at his once so beautiful features. His thick black hair had faded to the grey of the moon, at the peak of its arc across the sky; the colour it was when a thin layer of wisp had somehow steeled in front of its face.   
The pallor of his skin was further worsened by a series of wrinkles, burdened with the memories of the Fairchild couple and the silver haired-boy from his dreams.  
But his eyes remained the same. Midnight blue, impossibly dark that they reminded his wife especially of the night’s sky. They held wisdom now, but haven't they always?   
It was no secret that William Herondale was forced to grow up faster than any young child should have had to; his awe-inspiring knowledge of the world around him, and, for that matter, the world in the books had his eyes sparkling with something akin to youth, even at 76 years old.  
Not to mention the skill and agility taught to him so very long ago; maybe it was the combination of both mind and body that allowed him to live to the ripe old age as he had.   
But alas, Will knew he was dying.   
The dark furniture in the room seemed to be even darker due to the lack of normally abundant witchlight. A dim ray of yellow artificial light was projected from a suspended lamp just to the right of the old man's head, spiralling down to form pools of visibility on the crimson carpet.   
Now, Will Herondale was a lucky man. The younger years of his life had been spent trying to protect those he loved from a curse that did not even exist. But oblivious and naive, his exterior adopted a cold-heartened cruelness that demolished any outer beauty he had and kept hidden away the true, aching soul he so desperately longed to set free.  
Of course, his facade slipped more than once; often around a young warlock by the name of Tessa Gray.   
An enigma, if ever Will saw one. And he felt a determination in him to figure her out and solve the riddle once and for all.   
Personally, although he'd never tell, he always preferred abstract riddles to poems. They were more thought-provoking. More fun.   
Tessa Gray, with her thick brown hair and piercing grey eyes as tribute to her surname, that seemed to hold a much greater understanding of the world as one her age should also. Perhaps it was attributable to the venturing she made a habit of herself, into the works of fiction and the like. Or, it could have been the fact, that when Will first happened upon the acquaintance of Miss Gray, she had been locked up as prisoner in a dingy little room for god knows how many weeks, subjected to the training of a power she neither knew she had not particularly wanted and bore the inflictions of wounds from her defiance... And so, she promptly attacked him with a ceramic bowl. 'No,' she'd correct him time and time again whenever he brought it up. 'It was a jug.' And he'd shake his head and smile; a small, tender smile and exclaim with wonder how it was that she remembered after so very long.  
She had been the one to push him into the search of the blue demon that he believed had cursed him. For a life without people had been too much to bear; a life without love had revealed to be irrevocably harder.  
He could not quite remember some parts of his life. For example, although he dare not tell his wife for fear of pity or chance of deepening the sadness on her part, the space in his head which should have held his two beloved children was merely a blank haze of grey. Like someone had deliberately smudged over their faces and names to make everything that much harder. But he could also remember other things in such vivid detail; things that he had neither wanted to relive nor wanted to remember. Such as the mahogany and stone decor in the Institute. And the wailing, depressive lines of song being belted in old Irish from the kitchen. He could see a pretty parasol bursting open, protruding deadly spikes lining the lace. And the ginger haired man with his kind face and inquisitive mind, and the one too many troubled inventions. And the small mousy woman, that in every single aspect Will could think of was so much more adapt at the running of the prestigious building and the protection of both mundanes and supernatural beings that any man he ever knew. And the dark-haired maid with a long, thin scar disfiguring her face. He was mean to her. The memory straining to be seen was negative.   
He knew there was someone else as well and it frustrated him internally that he could not remember who was supposed to fill the empty space. Will could automatically tell that this person was important. From the twinging pain where his heart should be to the everlasting mourning of his soul.   
His wrinkled hand was being held by his wife. Tessa had not aged, nor would she ever. And yet her love for his entire being ran deep and passionate that it never did sway her feelings from the wizened appearance he now had. She was still beautiful, although her eyes had an undercurrent of pure grief.   
The door opened, letting in a streaming beacon of witchlight from the corridor, which was blocked only by a man. Or, what Will assumed was a man.   
His face was monstrous; a pale oval with a sewn up mouth and hollow empty eyes. A parchment-coloured robe adorned his slender frame and he reached up to pull his hood down, drawing his facial features into even greater depths. His slightly tanned arms were decorated with runes.  
Tessa barely held in a sob and Will knew who this was immediately. The space in his soul and heart and mind cleared, like a fog on a windy day.   
‘Entreat me not to leave thee,  
Or return from following after thee—  
For whither thou goest, I will go,  
And where thou lodgest, I will lodge.  
Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.   
Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried.   
The Angel do so to me, and more also,  
If aught but death part thee and me’  
William Herondale heard his own voice, the voice of a seventeen year old boy, with a handsome complexion and intricate ambiance; Jem is my weakness. A covenant says that you must not go anywhere I cannot come with you. You swore to stay with me.  
And even in Will’s half-conscious state, he heard the haunting yet beautiful notes from the old violin dance around the room.  
James Carstairs played, and he played the years of Will's life as he had seen them. He played two little boys in the training room, one showing the other how to throw knives, and he played the ritual of parabatai: the fire and the vows and burning runes. He played two young men running through the streets of London in the dark, stopping to lean up against a wall and laugh together. He played the day in the library when he and Will had jested with Tessa about ducks, and he played the train to Yorkshire on which Jem had said that parabatai were meant to love each other as they loved their own souls. He played that love, and he played their love for Tessa, and hers for them, and he played Will saying, In your eyes I have always found grace. He played the too few times he had seen them since he had joined the Brotherhood- the brief meetings at the Institute; the time when Will had been bitten by a Shax demon and nearly died, and Jem had come from the Silent City and sat with him all night, risking discovery and punishment. And he played the birth of their first son, and the protection ceremony that had been carried out on the child in the Silent City. Will would have no other Silent Brother but Jem perform it. And Jem played the way he had covered his scarred face with his hands and turned away when he'd found out the child's name was James.  
He played of love and loss and years of silence, words unsaid and vows unspoken, and all the spaces between his heart and theirs; and when he was done, and he'd set the violin back in its box, Will's eyes were closed, but Tessa's were full of tears. Jem set down his bow, and came toward the bed. And he had sat down beside, and taken Will's hand, the one that Tessa was not holding, and both Will and Tessa heard Jem's voice in their minds.  
I take your hand, brother, so that you may go in peace.  
William Herondale smiled. He felt warm. His heart no longer ached. Instead, it seemed to be burning, like ash being kindled into fire, comforting, loving, tender. And he knew, in that moment, with Tessa’s head on his shoulder and Jem’s hand in his, that he would forever be warm. Because Hell was far too cold for him.


End file.
